


Batten Down the Hatches

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pirate AU, Ridiculousness, Smut, UST, a crazy mash of characters from a bunch of fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Pirate AU.David is captain of a pirate ship, and Diarmuid is a new crew member...
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Whiskey Induced Bravado

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be a crazy collection of stories in no particular order. Come along for the ride.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be PWP, but my fingers slipped and now it's sad.
> 
> The next one though...smut.

“This is so frustrating,” Diarmuid moaned, dropping his forehead to the saltwater roughened wood table and grimacing in pain.

“Ay, lad, the captain is a stubborn man,” Ciaran said, sitting across from him and watching him with knowing eyes.

“I’m doing everything I can think of. I’ve never flirted so obscenely in my life,” Diarmuid complains, putting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. 

“I know, it’s frustrating for us too,” MJ says, patting him on the back with a soft hand.

“I mean, that man is generally really smart, but sometimes he’s so dense,” Ned says, “we’re _all_ throwing you at him and he won’t take a hint.”

“Well, I know just the thing to help you forget our handsome captain’s idiocy,” Rua says, sliding out of the ship’s small kitchen area with two glittering dark bottles held aloft in his hands.

“Whiskey,” he proclaims to exuberant exclamations from the crew.

“Oh, um,” Diarmuid winces, embarrassed, “I’ve only ever had wine... in church. I haven’t—“

“No time like the present,” MJ smiles, filling a mug and placing it down with a thud in front of him, “besides: you’re a pirate now, and pirates drink whiskey!”

Cheers echoed through the ship canteen and Diarmuid felt his mood lift, despite his frustration. At least they all have his back.

They watch him carefully as he takes a tentative sip and immediately coughed. It’s horrible, but then heat spread through his chest and into his belly, and he thinks that perhaps it isn't too terrible. He takes another drink and holds the mug out for more. Ned cheers and happily pours until the cup is filled.

“It’s just as frustrating for us, you know,” Cathal says, sloshing liquid onto the alcohol stained table, “the captain needs to get laid. He’s soooo uptight.”

MJ giggled, hair fluffy and pretty in the heat and humidity.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you, Diarmuid, he definitely wants to bed you,” she grins.

Diarmuid blushes, the alcohol making him feel weird and floaty.

“Do you really think so,” Diarmuid asks, voice slurring horribly.

“Definitely. He wants to get in your pants,” Ned whispers loudly, “he’s just too restrained to do anything about it. You have to make the first move.”

“What,” Diarmuid yelps.

“You gotta make it obvious, so there’s no way to misinterpret,” he says, eyes going wide and serious, as though the thought had just occurred to him as well. And it makes complete sense. Ned is right. Diarmuid has to just go over to him and say…

“How do I make it obvious,” Diarmuid whines, “I feel like I’ve _been_ obvious and he just doesn’t notice.”

“Child,” Ciaran proclaims, voice loud in the warm canteen air, “you have to tell him with words. Subtlety is not the way to go.”

“But what do I _say_ ,” Diarmuid stresses, fiddling with the half empty mug. It’s his third or fourth mug. Maybe fifth. He lost count a while ago.

Ciaran’s face is flushed with drink, but he smiles widely and grips Diarmuid’s neck, leaning close.

“You tell that man that you want him to take you to bed. And not to sleep, but in the biblical manner—“

Ned chokes on whiskey and coughs. Diarmuid feels mortified blood rush to his face and distantly hears MJ cackle, thumping Ned on the back.

“'The biblical manner—'“ she shrieks.

“You tell him that you want his penis,” Ciaran says and Cathal yells in shock, standing and going into the kitchen to get more whiskey.

“I can’t say that,” Diarmuid protests, nearly upending his drink with a frantic gesticulation.

“Diarmuid— if you don’t bring it up, he will never get it, and you'll both be stuck pining for each other forever,” Ned insists, eyes watering with after his choking fit, “now go get your man.”

“Yes,” MJ shouts, “do it, Diarmuid. You have more balls than him, go tell him what’s what.”

“Here, here,” Rua yells, clinking his drink against MJ’s and they drink heartily, smiles bright on their faces. Diarmuid feels a swell in his chest at their confidence and comes to a decision, wobbling a bit as he stands up.

“You know what? You’re all right. Why am I so scared?”

He drains the last drops of whiskey from his mug, and slams the cup down.

“I’ll do it now,” he says, and the small crew cheers, standing and thumping him on the back, jostling him so hard in their enthusiasm that he nearly falls over. He leaves the kitchen to their encouragement and good wishes, strutting into the night air and smiling at the feel of cold wind on his face. He sways slightly as he walks across the deck, and for once he’s glad that they’re anchored off the coast of a shipping port. The ocean is calmer tonight than it’s been in a while, and the cool air is refreshing and invigorating.

He marches up to the second level and down the narrow hallway towards David’s quarters. It’s only when he’s already knocked on the worn door that his confidence falters, and it drops to nothing when the door creaks opens and David’s sleep mussed hair and bleary eyes greet him. Diarmuid stares at him, eyes falling to David’s bare chest— tanned skin and strong pectoral muscles so deliciously bare. Diarmuid opens his mouth and the word tilts— shoulder slamming against the unyielding wall as the ship dips with a small wave. Strangely it doesn't hurt as it normally would, but that could be because David is suddenly there, strong hands gripping Diarmuid’s biceps and bracing him against the hallway with ease.

“Diarmuid, are you okay? Are you hurt," David demands, alert eyes tracking Diarmuid's body for injuries.

“’m not hurt,” Diarmuid protests, and David tilts his head, eyes clearing.

“Ah. Ciaran cracked out the whiskey, huh?”

“Yes,” Diarmuid slurs, “and I’ve never really had alcohol before, so we had a lot.”

“Yes, I can tell,” David says, and his voice is so nice and deep, and his smile is so kind and happy, and Diarmuid just wants to fall into him.

“Whoa, okay, come sit inside,” David leads him into his quarters with a strong hand against his lower back and guides him to a chair.

David kneels in front of the chair, looking up into Diarmuid’s face. He’s so pretty, lit by candlelight and moonlight— strong and brave with a kindness unheard of in this world. And Diarmuid _loves_ him. The thought hurts because he knows it’s futile, despite what everyone said earlier. It suddenly hurts so much and he wants to disappear from the world and never feel anything ever again.

“What was the cause for such celebration,” David asks.

“Not celebration,” Diarmuid says, “for confidence.”

“Confidence?”

“They wanted me to talk to you,” Diarmuid says. Something that looks like anxiety passes in David’s gaze and it makes Diarmuid hesitate.

“What did they want you to tell me,” David asks, voice carefully level.

“It’s not important,” Diarmuid decides, voice dipping into a whisper. _He can’t._

“It seems important,” David presses, “and I promise I won’t be mad. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Diarmuid lies, looking around the room and avoiding David’s gaze, “We were just talking and I felt like coming to see you.”

“Hmm,” David mumbles, eyes turning serious and searching. He runs a hand thought his dark curls, several strands falling temptingly across his forehead and making Diarmuid’s fingers itch with the desire to touch. It’s quiet for a while, and Diarmuid gets lost watching David think. He's willing to be his ration of food for the week that David's curls are softer than pillows. Diarmuid's chest aches and David looks so warm and _safe_. He wants to curl up against David's chest, feel the warmth of his skin, smell the heat of him—

“Diarmuid,” David says, voice much too soft and serious, “you would tell me if something was truly wrong, right?”

The words clog up Diarmuid’s esophagus and he struggles, throat clicking as he swallows—

“I just wanted you to notice me,” Diarmuid manages, and it’s so horribly inadequate that he feels ridiculous tears well up in his eyes.

 _Oh no, how embarrassing_. He grimaces and goes to hide his face, but David’s big hands grip his wrists and so Diarmuid turns his face away to try and hide, suddenly feeling utterly sad and alone.

“Ugh, I feel weird. Why do people ever drink whiskey,” Diarmuid asks, voice shaky and tear clogged, “this is horrible.”

David huffs a laugh, rubbing his thumbs into Diarmuid’s wrists.

“Yeah, whiskey does tend to do that. Don’t move for a minute, okay?”

Diarmuid nods, maudlin with the knowledge that he’ll do anything David asks even though David won’t ever care for him the way Diarmuid selfishly desires.

He stares at the indigo died rug beneath his feet, heart aching like fire and cursing himself for being so foolish as to show up here. It seems like forever before David is again kneeling in front of him. He’s holding a damp cloth and his eyes look sad and worried.

“Why are you sad? You shouldn’t be sad,” Diarmuid slurs, “you’re too pretty to be sad.”

The light is dim in the cabin, but Diarmuid could swear there’s a dusky flush on David’s cheeks.

“Here, this will make you feel better,” David says, pressing the wet fabric it to his forehead. Diarmuid instantly feels the sickening heat of alcohol cool and he sighs happily. David spends a long time running the cloth delicately over his face, re-wetting it and pressing it against the back of his neck.

“How do you feel,” David asks, voice deeper than normal.

“Sorry, David. I didn’t mean to—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, grip on Diarmuid’s nape tightening with command, “it’s okay. My crew is responsible for this, not you.”

Diarmuid sighs, lids suddenly heavy with the feeling of David so close.

“How do you feel,” David asks again.

“Better,” Diarmuid mumbles, leaning into the grip on his neck.

David presses a mug of water to his lips and tilts it, making Diarmuid drink the whole mug full before removing the cloth from the back of his neck. Diarmuid misses it immediately.

“Okay, let’s get you to bed,” David says, putting the mug down and holding out a hand. Diarmuid stares at it, brain foggy and useless, thoughts diving quickly into sleep. The next thing Diarmuid knows his feet are off the ground and his face is hidden in the junction of David’s neck. He vaguely realizes David is carrying him, but he’s too tired and depressed to figure out if it’s reality or a dream, so he just presses his face against David’s jaw and whines. He thinks he hears David sigh, but that could be his imagination.

Diarmuid is carefully placed on a soft surface, and as he twists onto his side and hides his face in a pillow, he feels David’s hand brush through his curls a couple times. A thick blanket is pulled over him and he mumbles, pleasantly enveloped in sheets that smell of David. As the darkness of sleep drags him down, he hears David’s soft words:

“I notice you, Diarmuid.”


	2. Lantern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's not how you're supposed to use a lantern...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little plot, a lot of porn.
> 
> Hastily written. ;)

David watches Diarmuid fall asleep in his bed. As soon as it's clear Diarmuid's asleep, he shoves his feet into his boots and doesn't even both to tie the laces before he’s out the door.

The heat of rage grows in him as he stomps across the deck, rambunctious laughter echoing from the canteen where his crew is drinking.

He bursts into the celebration, door slamming open so hard the hinges may be damaged. Chairs scrape and shriek as his crew hurries to stand. They’re clearly drunk, but he’s so angry that he doesn’t care. Being a very protective person by nature, he rarely shows his anger to his own crew, but the image of Diarmuid trying not to cry is burned into his mind and it will never leave him.

“Who decided it would be a good idea to let Diarmuid get drunk,” he whispers, the sound of ocean lapping against their home loud in the sudden quiet. Ned won’t look at him, MJ (ever the wall of strength) maintains eye contact, and Cathal, Rua, and Ciaran stare straight ahead. No one speaks.

He sighs, knowing he’s not going to get an answer.

“Tomorrow, we are going to visit the port. I don't want any of you encouraging Diarmuid to drink. And when we come back on board, someone will tell me what happened here tonight.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before turning and marching out, sucking in deep breathes of cool ocean air. He pauses on the deck, wrapping his hands around the worn wood handrails and looking out to the nearby port. Lights glitter warmly, illuminating the shape of the small island.

It will be good for his crew to be on land for the next week. They need to blow off some steam. For now though, he goes back to his quarters and falls asleep on his couch, shoulders turned towards Diarmuid’s sleeping form.

\---

The next day was very long, from Diarmuid waking up hungover, to his crew balking at his simmering rage.

Getting on land was a blessing, and they immediately descended on a favorite saloon. It’s loud and rambunctious inside, people drinking and laughing, feasting and fighting. David smiles, watching Diarmuid take it all in with wide, curious eyes. This is a far cry from his demure Irish hometown, he thinks, watching a sex worker seduce a very drunk man in the corner by pulling her top down and exposing her breasts. Diarmuid is so curious about all the sights that he keeps wandering off and David has to reach out and snap his shoulder, guiding him along and keeping him with the group.

“You don’t want to get caught alone here,” he warns, and Diarmuid nods, walking closer to David. The settle into a secluded booth in a corner, ordering too much food and enjoying the rowdy atmosphere. It isn't long before MJ disappears with a pretty local woman, and the rest of his crew start drinking and arguing. David leans close to Diarmuid, gripping his wrist.

"You want to tell me what last night was about?"

Diarmuid doesn't. It's clear from his expression that he wants to forget the whole thing, but David is genuinely worried. 

"Diarmuid wants the dick!"

Rua dives across the table and smacks a hand over Ned's mouth too late, turning horrified eyes to Diarmuid. Diarmuid turns blood red, staring at the tabletop and feeling David go stiff next to him.

"Ned," Ciaran groans, hiding his face in his hands. 

"Gentlemen, I would appreciate if you would all give us some space," David suggests, and the crew disperses faster than a pod of dolphins, leaving Diarmuid mortified and alone.

"Uh," he mumbles, twisting his fingers.

David takes his fingers in his hands, stilling them.

"I thought you were uncomfortable with my attention," David says, eyes warm in the saloon light. Diarmuid's world tilts. Does that mean...?

"No! No, I...I've been flirting with you for weeks. I thought I was being obvious and you just weren't interested."

David's pupils expand and Diarmuid sucks in a shocked breath. _Oh._

\---

They stumble up to the second floor, David tugging his shirt out of his pants as they sway down the hallway towards their room. Diarmuid reaches it first and fumbles for the key, hands shaking and breathing heavy. David braces his hands against the door, bracketing Diarmuid and leaning down to whisper:

“Hurry,” he growls, digging his fingers into the doorframe and pressing his chest against Diarmuid, tilting his hips to press against Diarmuid’s backside.

Diarmuid groans and finally manages to get the door open, falling into the darkness. David stalks in after him, slamming the door closed and pushing Diarmuid up against it, gripping his chin and pressing their mouths together. Diarmuid moans and David slides his tongue into Diarmuid mouth, swallowing the sounds he makes. Diarmuid’s hands slide up David’s untucked shirt, pressing against his abdomen and feeling for the scars that litter his skin. David sucks in a breath and leans down to bite Diarmuid’s neck.

“Take me to bed,” Diarmuid demands, and David reaches under Diarmuid’s thighs and picks him up, walking him to the bed and dropping him down onto the mattress.

David smirks down at Diarmuid’s lust blown eyes, slowly pulling his shirt up and off, eyes glittering when Diarmuid has to press a hand against his groin to calm himself. David reaches down, unlacing his pants and pulling them off, erection already leaking in the cool night air.

“Oh,” Diarmuid mumbles, wide eyes surprised by the sight of him. David can’t help but smirk, gripping Diarmuid’s ankles and pulling, reaching for the ties on his pants.

“Take your shirt off,” he growls, fingers tugging at Diarmuid’s pants. 

David climbs up onto the bed once Diarmuid's pants are off, sliding his hips between Diarmuid’s thighs and leaning down to press Diarmuid back, caging him against the bed.

“I want—“ Diarmuid pauses and swallows, fingers dancing anxiously along David’s pectorals.

“Hm,” David prompts, grabbing some of those nervous fingers and pressing his lips to them.

Diarmuid’s uncertain eyes turn stubborn and he licks his lips, “I want you inside me.”

David sucks in a quick breath and nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “yes, that sounds…”

Diarmuid laughs at his stuttering, and David twists his mouth, smacking Diarmuid’s hip in reprimand. It has the opposite effect and Diarmuid groans, squirming against him.

Suddenly frantic, David looks around and spots an oil lantern on the beside table. He reaches for it, twisting the top to open it. He grumbles in frustration as his hands slip on the lid, distracted by Diarmuid’s mouth pressing kisses along his shoulders. He manages to open the container and dips his fingers into the slick oil, leaning back over to Diarmuid and pulling his thigh wider.

“Are you sure,” David has to ask, and Diarmuid lets out an irritated groan.

“Yes, I’m bloody well sure, would you just—“

Diarmuid stops on a gasp, thighs twitching in surprise when David presses two fingers against his hole, rubbing the oil into the skin.

“Okay,” David asks, voice husky and thick. He clears it and waits for Diarmuid to nod.

“What—“

“I have to stretch you first or it will be painful,” David explains, watching a glimmer of anxiety light up Diarmuid’s eyes.

“Tell me if it hurts, and we’ll stop,” David demands, waiting again for Diarmuid’s nod.

Slowly, he presses one oil slick finger in, leaning in to kiss Diarmuid’s lips and neck, distracting him from the intrusion.

Once he feels his knuckle hit Diarmuid's hips he pauses.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, just feels…weird. Do another,” Diarmuid says, eyes shining in the dark. David nods, pulls back and drips some more oil onto his fingers, rubbing against the muscle again before slowly pressing in. Diarmuid immediately clenches in surprise.

“Shh,” David hushes, “relax. Breathe through it and relax.”

It’s slow going and David’s heart burns with the slow pace, but Diarmuid eventually takes two fingers, sweating against the sheets in the candle light. David’s knuckles ache where they grind together. He seriously contemplates just sticking to fingers tonight, based on how tight Diarmuid is—

He slowly, slowly spread his fingers, massaging inside Diarmuid, pressing and curling until—

“Ah!”

David grins at Diarmuid’s surprised yell. He turns shocked eyes to David, chest shivering.

“Again,” David asks, and curls and presses his fingers again when Diarmuid nods. He yelps, twisting and pressing back against David’s fingers. David would love to watch Diarmuid come with just David's fingers inside him, but Diarmuid has other plans, reaching for him and panting.

“David, David, inside me, please—“

David pulls back, reaching for the oil and nearly knocking it over in his haste, taking a generous amount and gritting his teeth as he spreads it over his dick. Diarmuid keeps pulling his shoulders, trying to get him closer.

David pauses between Diarmuid’s thighs to kiss him, trying to get Diarmuid to calm down.

“David,” Diarmuid whines, wiggling down and spreading his legs wider.

“Okay, okay,” David says, positioning the head of his erection against Diarmuid’s entrance. He grips Diarmuid’s hip with his free hand and locks eye with him.

“You tell me to stop and I will. No matter what, okay?”

Diamuid nods frantically, “hurry, hurry—“

David tightens his hand on Diarmuid’s hip and presses against the muscle. Diarmuid yelps and instinctively tries to get away, but David’s grip holds him tight.

“Relax,” he demands and Diarmuid’s nails scrabble at his arm and the wrist pinning him down.

Diarmuid takes deep breathes, gradually calming, and David presses in, erection sliding past the tight ring of muscle, keeping an eye out for Diarmuid’s erratic breathing.

It takes forever before David is fully seated, sweat pouring down his back and chest.

“Okay,” David says, moving his hands to brace next to Diarmuid’s shoulders. Diarmuid had closed his eyes at some point, and when he opens them and sees David his breathing becomes labored.

“Hey, Diarmuid, stay with me,” David says, watching panic fill Diarmuid, stealing his breath.

“Stay here with me, sweetheart,” he demands, “take slow breathes, I’m not going anywhere.”

Diarmuid nods, breathing coming back under control after several long moments. David kisses him softly, on the mouth, his neck, his shoulders, waiting until Diarmuid is ready. It’s agony to stay still, but he’ll wait forever for Diarmuid.

As Diarmuid’s panicked breathing manages to level out, his hands turn from claws against David’s back to slow caresses.

“Okay,” Diarmuid manages, voice strangled.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

David nods and slowly pulls back and presses in, setting up a slow, rolling pace. Diarmuid relaxes, getting used to the feeling. Eventually Diarmuid's grip turns urging, tugging at David's hips to get him to move faster.

David leans back slightly to change the angle and presses up.

Diarmuid yells so loudly David’s sure they will hear complaints when they leave the next day, but he couldn’t care less in this moment.

David grins and picks up the pace, rolling his hips up into Diarmuid harder and harder and Diarmuid turns into a limp mess, begging for more and fisting his hands into the sheets above his head.

David reaches down and gets his hand on Diarmuid’s erection, leaking profusely from the stimulation, and it’s not long before Diarmuid shireks and comes, back bowing and white splattering up his chest.

The added tightness and the sight of Diarmuid’s pleasure is too much for David and he spills into Diarmuid with a low groan, hips jolting several more times before stilling, pressed as deep as possible into Diarmuid's warmth.

He slowly pulls back, watching Diarmuid grimace at the feeling, before collapsing next to him on the bed.

"I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow," Diarmuid mumbles.

"I'll carry you," David says, cackling as Diarmuid complains while simultaneously curling into his side to settle in for the night.


End file.
